


(memory)

by CloudDreamer



Series: Theater of Tragicomedy [3]
Category: Hiveswap, Homestuck
Genre: POV Second Person, Repressed Memories, thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 20:02:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloudDreamer/pseuds/CloudDreamer
Summary: Some thoughts from an olive blood who doesn’t know sheknows too much.





	(memory)

You are a whisper in this world, tendril of smoke, blown into void by the breath of someone with more permeance. You walk in between the footprints of reality, invisible to its waves.

When you’re seen by those with power, you fold into yourself without objection. You talk quietly, words enclosed in parenthesis to hide your heart, if you talk at all. 

Your hat conceals your face, and your coat covers your body. You do nothing offensive, never step a line out of a place nobody bothered to define for you in the first place, but it doesn’t matter. They are stronger.

Might makes right, is something said by someone in a word far away to justify their actions, but there was never any concern about what was right in the first place. Justice is what you make it, if you have power, and you do not.

You are hit, stabbed, burnt, and shocked. You lie on the ground that might just open up and swallow you whole, leaving no trace you were ever here, and you wonder if this is how you will always be. 

Your olive blood means you might live for a long time, longer than the golds, the bronzes, and the rusts beneath you. It means you’re durable, with quick instincts and precision, but it also means you’re vulnerable. 

You don’t break easily, not like those beneath you, with their psychic powers that call specters or beasts and tug at the energy of the world, but you’re not protected. You’re no jade, essential to reproduction. No teal, hunting down criminals. No royal.

Will it always be this way? 

Your mind is moving, distinct from the pain of your body. It stitches itself together, thread through the needles, as gears click, mechanical, impersonal. Your heart is empty inside this shell. 

Will it always be this way? 

Your truth is buried. You hide these memories— and they are memories— of an old secret you refuse to understand in the liminal spaces of your mind. The fragments of the world you understand more than anyone you’ve ever met shimmer like mirages. Tantalizing. Forbidden. 

You accept the lies that fit like an uncomfortable second skin, too tight in places and too loose in others. If you look in, would you lose what little you do accept? Would those long forgotten whispers disappear as easily as you could? Or would you see it all, the light of it burning the not-quite-comforting facades away? 

The grass is cold, and the dirt is hard. The forest is filled with flora and fauna, all too happy to consume you piece by piece. Even the flowers, with their beautiful petals, are venomous. They’ll rip you apart and use your bone marrow as fertilizer. 

You won’t die today, though, and that’s one of those unarticulated truths. This world is how it must be. Uninterrupted. The life around you, in its intricate cycles of violence, of strength, of love, is predictable. It’s complexities are measurable. Your mind does not calculate them, but your instincts understand them. 

You are invisible to most. 

You stand behind shadows cast by the void’s light, and you’ve been doing so all your life, balancing this cursed scale. If you stepped forward, off the precipice, you will risk everything, and you will lose. Doom encircles this reality. That is the truth beneath all your deception, internal and external.

You do not think this. You do not accept that you already have thought it, that you always will, that you are thinking it now. You don’t think at all; you just exist. 

You float in the comfort of nothingness as your eyes focus on the moons. It is almost an eclipse. The candy pink moon is far away, distant and celestial. It is graceful, an orbit you understand, and it is as familiar as the pulse of the blood beneath your skin. 

It as your natural vision tries to land on the lime that the sensation of discomfort grows strong. You are seeing double, and you are not seeing at all. Your eyelids shut, except you aren’t moving, and you still see. It is the color of blood that seeps from eyes, from mouths, from cuts as that shriek, so painful and sharp, resounds.

You grip your fists tight. You are now, you are you. There is nothing else you can be. The denial tightens around you, vicelike grip. This is who you must not see. You will not. You refuse. You hide all of it away, logic insisting that no, you can’t know this. Everything you’ve ever learned, everything he’s ever told you— they’ve ever told you.

This is what you must not see. This is why we look at what is in front of us. This can’t be.

But you’ve looked, without even realizing it, and the truth doesn’t disappear. It doesn’t wash over you in a wave, in a tsunami of realization. It is as easy as blinking. 

Because you already knew.


End file.
